VII: Afterwards, and Before
by LPSATX
Summary: The "last" chapter of The Hollow Boy; or, what happens after Lucy resigns? K plus for language. And, umm, it takes place after the third book, right? So major spoilers alert. In this summary, actually. I've never used this site before so this will have to do as my author's note because I can't figure out how to add one. Please forgive me if I've done anything wrong.
1. Chapter 1

I hadn't planned to ruin our celebration with my announcement. Days after my encounter with the Fetch in King's Prison, however, I found myself increasingly preoccupied, haunted really, by the apparition and its prediction. Breaking up our team-our ridiculous, wonderful, perfect team-was one of the hardest things I'd ever done.

But it won hands down over the alternative: watching Lockwood die.

So I was grateful to George for his attempt to lighten the mood. In the finely-tuned machine that had been Lockwood & Co., Psychic Investigation Agency, we all had our roles to play. George's sarcasm and flair for stating the obvious had defused tension during the many horrifying nights we had spent together, not to mention his fine research skills and slightly obsessive tendencies, which had saved our lives on so many jobs.

George's perverse-and extensive-experimentation with the apparition whose Source was contained in the ghost jar (which ended only when we discovered I could communicate directly with that Type Three ghost, and I came perilously close to hearing far more than I wanted about a certain bubble bath) was typical of him. Doggedly determined, in questionable taste, and usually good for a laugh.

In this instance, though, it's possible he was truly upset about the cake. Hard to tell with George, sometimes, but sweets were generally a priority. And snarkiness.

Our first meeting, during my job interview, might have ended in a brawl if I had been able to goad him into a more energetic reaction, or if Lockwood hadn't intervened. My initial irritation at George Cubbins' plump bland face and his silly little round glasses was matched only by his apparent disdain for me, especially later after I gave in to a nearly disastrous impulse to save Annie Ward's locket. And then promptly forgot it in my pocket that night, inviting her vengeful Specter into our home, at which time she almost killed both George and Lockwood in my bedroom.

But our relationship had improved significantly since then.

It was George who should have gotten most of the credit for locating the Chelsea outbreak Source. Odd to think that his discovery of King's Prison and the plague pit at Aickmere's, and the neutralizing of the apparent Source, had been only a few days ago. Physically we all bore the signs still, but while the others seem to have sprung back true to form, I can't say that I was the same old Lucy Carlyle.

Like Esmeralda-our sparring dummy in the basement-after a tough bout, I had been knocked seriously out of kilter.

Not by the confrontation with the Poltergeist, the scrabbling apparition and its host of spiders, or even the medieval prison full of skeletons. Awful as they had been, dealing with the remains of the dead and their psychic manifestations was part of the job. It was my job, in fact. Or rather, had been.

No, what had unsettled me was being forced to confront my own behavior and my motives, first during my screaming match with Holly Munro and then during my two encounters with Lockwood: what seemed to be a heart-wrenching post-mortem interview with his ghost, and then the glimpse of intimacy during our walk out to the Thames-when I had confessed to the real boy that I had trespassed in his sister's room and then inadvertently listened to the echoes of her death.

I hadn't finished making sense of any of that. At fourteen I'd had very little experience dealing with my emotions, but I was giving it a go. I knew I had to explore my Talent, and I was now sure I couldn't do that without endangering my colleagues and friends at Lockwood & Co. After a bit of a weepy sulk, as the skull had described it, I had made my decision-or perhaps realized the decision I had already made.

I didn't see how I could go out on even one more job with Lockwood, not so much as quieting a Stone Knocker. No matter how difficult for all of us, how disruptive, I had to quit before I triggered a fatal accident. Surely the others would see that.

Unavoidably, though, my resignation and explanation seemed to have put a damper on our party. Silence now reigned again over the four of us. Then Lockwood spoke.

"Well, then. Let's have cake, shall we?" After only the barest hesitation he continued. "That's alright about resigning, Lucy. You can resign tomorrow. But you can't resign tonight and you can't leave the agency until we interview and secure a replacement for you. It's in your contract," he explained, with just the shade of his old grin.

I gaped at him. Whatever I had expected, this wasn't it.

"Contract? I never signed a contract! Don't be ridiculous. You were there, George," I said, swiveling to face him. "You told me about the one-cookie rule and that was that," I finished, now glaring again at my employer. My former employer.

Lockwood's grin had solidified as my scowl deepened.

"Ah, well, I have a copy of each of your contracts here somewhere." Lockwood flapped his hand vaguely.

He turned away from me, arched his eyebrow and continued in mock seriousness. "More to the point, we have on this table a fudge cake that promises to assist George in his quest to achieve a major coronary event before the age of twenty. I know that you're in quite a protective mood, Lucy, but if you are going to stand between a man and his fate, I'm sure George here would prefer you start tomorrow," he said, picking up the knife George had been brandishing a few minutes earlier and giving it to Holly.

Lockwood's effortless cleverness at my expense (and George's, of course) was infuriating. I had resigned from the agency to save Lockwood's life-an action I thought he of all people would understand, for several reasons-and now he was actually laughing at me. Perhaps next he'd ask Holly to step into the office to help him find our contracts and they'd go wandering off to the basement together.

Pressure was building in my head. I was almost giddy, just as I had been when I snapped at Aickmere's. I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff and the temptation to jump was almost irresistible. That thought brought me back, suddenly and sharply, to the lip of the well in Combe Carey and to Lockwood, pulling me to him and saving my life.

At that moment I realized fully that never again would Lockwood be there at my side. I had chosen; he had clearly-easily-accepted my choice. The memory of Combe Carey felt like ashes and dust in my mouth and I wanted to spit it out, attack, destroy something. Cry.

I didn't, if course. To an impartial observer, a wandering Shade pressed inquisitively against the glass of our kitchen window that night (if any Shade ever had enough awareness or energy to be curious), it probably looked as though I did nothing.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

I stopped myself. I slowed my heart, I stilled my breathing. I fixed some form of smile on my face. I packed up all my memories, my new and painful awareness-and my fury-and pushed them down into that box where I kept my fear when I was working.

Of course, that's what agents are supposed to do. We keep our emotions under tight control so they can't be used against us, used to feed an apparition during a manifestation. And so very recently we had all seen what could happen when I let my feelings slip loose.

The skull had told me that my peculiar talent alone was enough to draw Visitors to me, but when I had unleashed my jealousy and aggression toward Holly in Aickmere's, the already powerful Poltergeist there had become a raging tornado of destruction that nearly killed us all, including the remaining three members of Kipps' Fittes team.

I couldn't be responsible for any more deaths.

So I had resolved to quit my job, resigned to leaving my home and friends in order to prevent something like that from ever happening again. That is to say, in order to frustrate the Fetch's prophesy and stop my Talent from killing Anthony Lockwood.

Who was now flashing his most appealing grin and saying "Right then! Cake now, heavy talk tomorrow."

With a quick glance at my admittedly strained expression, Holly said brightly "Shall I be mother?" and without waiting for an answer, served the cake. Three generous slices and an almost translucent sliver for herself.

George took his mammoth piece and eyed me warily, a tight little frown on his face. His blue eyes looked sharp and bright behind his spectacles. He'd gotten a new pair, I noticed, in the past day or so. Suited him.

I took a big, sloppy bite of cake-it was mostly frosting, actually, which I hate, but damn if I'd let Lockwood know that-and mimed extravagant enjoyment. At least George laughed. Holly, I could see, was barely restraining herself from wiping a thick smear of chocolate off my cheek. I left it there, just for fun.

"As much as it pains me to admit it, Lucy, Lockwood is right," George said. "No point in doing anything tonight. Where are you going to go, at this hour?"

As much as it pained me to admit it, George was right. Meaning that Lockwood was, too. I tucked in to my cake, aggressively.

Primly patting his mouth, Lockwood stood up and went to turn on the radio. I saw Holly steal another glance at my face; her hand, the one holding her napkin, twitched.

The familiar opening bars of that season's hit sing-along show filled the kitchen. All of the music was catchy and upbeat for nighttime consumption. Keeping the unquiet dead at bay.

As cheesy as the whole concept was, whoever put that program together knew exactly what they were doing and within a few minutes we were, well, singing along. And dancing. Or in my case, rocking a bit from side to side. Holly was of course doing something complicated, precise and graceful that seemed to have been choreographed to match the lyrics. There must be a secret school where other girls learned this stuff, along with braiding hair and giggling.

It turned out that singing was one thing Holly Munro did not excel at, although she participated gamely. Lockwood's voice was soft but pleasant. And the biggest surprise was that George and I could apparently both sing, and we did quite well together. I didn't know anything at all about music beyond a few nursery tunes vaguely remembered from childhood, but no less an authority than Holly Herself informed us that we had been harmonizing and that if we could manage to work together, just a bit, and perhaps practice, we could be quite passable.

I caught George's eye but my joke about serenading ghosts during an upcoming job died almost instantly, as I remembered that there would be no more jobs for me and George, no more jobs for me at all.

George started forward, his hand moving unexpectedly to my shoulder, as I sat down a trifle heavily at the table. I thought I had recovered from the impacts of my fall a few days before but suddenly my whole body ached. The sluggishness I labored under earlier had returned, full force.

The other two hadn't noticed. I heard Lockwood saying that he felt his talent was being slighted and saw Holly as she replied. Oh no, you have a lovely quiet voice. It's calming, really. Perfect for lullabies.

That thought and the look on Holly's face knotted my stomach so tightly I was sure that Lockwood and Co. was going to see my piece of chocolate fudge cake for the second time that night. All at once despondency and exhaustion closed over me as though I were drowning, like I was a victim of that malaise preceding a very strong Visitor. And my tea was cold.

"I'm going up to bed," I managed. I struggled out of the chair and headed for the stairs. I barely paused to respond to their good-nights and definitely didn't stop to invite hugs.

I did stop in the hallway, however, to pick up my new rapier from the rack. Although it had just arrived yesterday, it already seemed like my own, an extension of my arm. One thing was certain - I was not giving it up when I left, whenever that would be. Given the wards on the house I knew I carried it up to the third floor more for comfort than for defense but somehow it felt right.

Climbing the stairs, on the other hand, felt all wrong. It was agonizing, almost as if I were fighting Ghost Lock. A weight seemed to grind me into the tread with each step; I had to rest on the landing and even so was gasping for breath by the time I reached the top. Brushing my teeth in the minuscule bath was another strain.

Entering my room, I found I was shaking and barely able to lift the skull's ghost jar to move it out of the way so I could close the door behind me. I laid my rapier beneath the bed, struggled out of my clothes and managed to pull on my threadbare plaid pajamas, extracted from the heap of dirty clothes in the corner. Their shapeless worn cotton was smooth and soft against my skin.

Before almost falling into bed, I did one last thing: I lifted a delicate silver chain from the chipped blue china saucer on my dresser and fastened it about my neck. The diamond pendant was a cool, familiar touch at my throat.

While silver provided formidable protection against ghosts-and the necklace had saved my life, at least once-I wore it while sleeping because in some oddly superstitious corner of my brain I believed it would bring me sweet dreams. Just like the rattles and masks Lockwood's parents had collected from faraway corners of the globe, the necklace was a talisman. Perhaps they all worked in some sense-they provided comfort, if not protection. Wasn't that what I was seeking?

My jumbled thoughts drifted away from my control and I fell into a troubled sleep.

A faint noise of tapping pulled at the edge of my consciousness. I groaned. My face was wet with tears. The pressure in my chest was unbearable.

"No. No! I'm so sorry," I cried.

"Lucy?" The voice barely made an impression.

It was my fault. I couldn't focus, caught on the border between sleep and wakefulness, my awareness overwhelmed by paralyzing feelings of remorse. "It's my fault," I panted.

I sat up in bed, looked around the darkened room, tried to catch my breath. My heart was racing. Where the solid panel of my door should have been, there was a seam of light, a shadow, and a pale green glow.

The glow intensified, resolved itself into a face. His face. In my dream I knew it was the Fetch. I didn't care.

"Lucy." The same tone, the same aura of sadness and love it had radiated as we stood in the middle of the Room of Skeletons in the King's Prison a few nights before.

After my struggles with myself earlier that night, my anger and my grief, the compassion of the Fetch-as empty as it might be-was my undoing. My mind flashed back to the little ghost, pleading, on the stairs in the Wintergarden house.

And then I knew. Somehow I had made a decision without thinking. I held out my hand.

"Don't leave me," I begged. "Please don't leave me again. Don't go!"

The figure moved toward me, its hand extended now and in shadow. Behind and beside the dark silhouette I caught the briefest glimpse of the ghost in the silver glass jar. Had I been thinking more clearly I would have been shocked.

No traces of the skull were visible at all under the regular features of the face, an ordinary young man's face. He was unrecognizable to me. There was no distortion, no grimace, no gnashing teeth, no malice. Just an expression of pure longing. His eyes met mine for fraction of a second and the green ghost light winked out.

Focused instead on the darkened Fetch, I waited, my hand out, steeling myself for the coming numbness. The ghost touch would chill me instantly, freeze my vital functions. If I didn't call out, no one would come, no one would administer adrenaline and first aid. I would die in my tiny room in the attic of 35 Portland Row. They would ward another door with iron strips and fill my room with lavender and the pain in my heart and my head would, mercifully, come to an end.

The long fingers that curled around mine were neither cold nor insubstantial. I felt the strength of his grip and the calluses from constant practice with the rapier. Warmth flooded into me; I realized I was shivering violently. I tried to speak but my throat constricted and all I could manage was a short, high-pitched squeak.

"Lucy, Lucy. You're frozen. Are you sick? Were you dreaming?" Lockwood had sat down on the edge of my bed-his bed, really-and was holding both my hands.

The room was so dark that I could barely make out the contours of his face, but I didn't need to. His face was as familiar as my own. Probably more so, as I wasted relatively little time looking in mirrors and an awful lot of time looking at Anthony Lockwood. His brown eyes would be shining, his dark hair flopped forward over his brow. The skull in the ghost-jar had reported that Lockwood spent hours fixing it just so, which might even be true. As for me, George had questioned whether I even knew how to use a comb-hard to take from a boy whose personal hygiene often ranked somewhere below that of most wraiths.

I would have to lie, again, to Lockwood. I didn't have the strength to tell the truth. I would laugh a shaky laugh and say Yes, I was dreaming, a terrible nightmare brought on by exhaustion and the events of the past few days. I am fine, I would say. Go back to bed, I would say. Tomorrow I would leave, and then he would be safe. And I would never have to tell him how angry and hurt I had been earlier tonight.

I couldn't do it. The hollow spot where I stuffed my feelings was full up. I couldn't mash anything else in; I could barely keep control of what was already down there.

Instead, I leaned into him, clutching him desperately, and began to cry.

"You don't have to tell me, Lucy, if it's too much," he began. "You can just...you do deserve..."

"Shut up, Lockwood. If I don't say it now I'll never be brave enough," I sniffed into his shoulder.

"Then it must be very scary indeed because you, Lucy, are the bravest person I know." His arms wrapped around me and he hugged me tight, just for a moment. Then he stood up and went to the window, pulling back the curtain and letting bright moonlight flood the small room.

He returned to the bed and sat down, tucking one leg under him and looking at me expectantly. I cleared my throat and smoothed the bedclothes. I took a deep breath. I stared at my hands. I cleared my throat again.

After a moment, Lockwood ducked his head; he tilted it sideways to catch my downcast eyes. I sighed. I sniffed. I cleared my throat. Again.

"It's hard, Lockwood, it's difficult to talk to actual people," I said finally. "Holly said she thought I was a freak; I feel like that more and more. What kind of agent-what kind of person-gets advice from a skull in a jar? Good advice. Advice I actually listen to!"

"Of course I know- I've always known-I'm not a normal person. But I'm not even a normal agent. The things I want now are...different from what we're supposed to be doing, different from what's best for the team, or for the agency," I continued. "Different from what's best for you," I added quietly, still not meeting his eyes.

"I guess what I'm saying is that my Talent does scare me, I know it's dangerous and I've done stupid things...but it excites me, too. I'm getting closer to them, I know how to make it easier...and that means deliberately putting myself at risk. And I can't do that if you're who you are, if you're going to protect me." I risked a look up. Lockwood had opened his mouth to say something but I took a quick breath and plowed on. Might as well get it all out at one go.

"Lockwood, I lied about the Fetch. I saw it as clear as day. It had your face, and your voice, and when it spoke I knew it...it cared for me. And it showed me a horrible gaping wound in its chest and said it had died saving me-saving me again-and then you, the real you, told me you'd die for me and it's too much, Lockwood, it's too much." The words were tumbling out, uncontrolled, and I felt tears prickling again.

Lockwood patted my knee, or the vicinity of my knee, under the thin blanket. "Lucy, I know Aickmere's was harder for you than for anyone else but I'm here. I'm still here. Nothing bad happened. Well, we destroyed a department store, but nothing bad happened to me," he said.

I tried again. "Lockwood, it told me that it showed the future. If I stay on your team, you will die. And it will be my fault... " I trailed off, closing my eyes and shaking my head to ward off the memory of what I had seen, and heard. My pause lengthened into silence; I couldn't go on. Finally I turned my face up to his and opened my eyes.

Lockwood looked as serious as I had ever seen him. "So now you know how I feel every time. Every time, Luce. I can't tell myself the worst won't happen because the worst does happen. It did happen to Jessica, and I didn't stop it."

He ran his hand through his hair, hesitated, continued. "Lucy, I am and always will be completely responsible for you. It doesn't matter if you stay here or go work for Rotwell or you retire to the Cotswolds and breed dachshunds. I brought you into this agency, I introduced you to the skull, I encouraged you to develop your Talent. For my own purposes. That makes me responsible."

Now I got a low-wattage grin. "And Luce, I'd probably be dead already if anyone else had been by my side during half the stupid stunts we've pulled. You are the best agent I have ever worked with. Your Talent is the strongest I've ever heard of. If I died for you...it would be worth it."

I cut in quickly. "But not for me, Lockwood! I'm sorry but there are two people having this conversation!" I hated it when people-men-dismissed me in a fight because I was a girl. Somehow this felt the same.

I continued, more quietly. "Look, I don't want to give this up. The one thing I do know is that I love working with you. It's when I feel most alive and real and I know exactly what to do next and the world makes sense. But I can't do it anymore and it's not about you-it's me. I just can't live with it."

"Is that what this is, then? You can't go through another Wythburn Mill?"

I flinched at the name. "I never told you..."

"George isn't the only one who can use the library, you know." He sounded almost offended. "I did a little research on my own." He paused, started again. "Lucy, I am so very sorry about what happened to your team. I do understand."

I hugged myself. "No, Lockwood, I'm not sure you do. I think I only just barely understand it myself. Wythburn Mill was...horrific, but I got up the next day. My friends died but I survived." I hunted for the right words. Fighting a Raw-bones was infinitely easier than saying these things, out loud. Without a target for a salt bomb I felt so clumsy and vulnerable. I met his eyes briefly and then dropped my gaze.

"Lockwood, if you died I don't think I could survive it. Not because I was responsible. But because you'd be...gone." I reached up to clasp my diamond pendant in my hand. Sweet thoughts of the night he'd given it to me flooded my mind: his smile at my blue dress, his flawless tuxedo, the city spread out before us from the roof of the warehouse. Our leap-together-into the pitch-black Thames.

Another realization. "Lockwood, I think the reason I have to leave now is because it feels to me like you've already gone. I can't stay here and watch you with her...Holly. With Holly."

As I spoke, I knew it to be the truth. Holly's glossy perkiness and her unhesitating assumption that anything needing doing would be better done by her wouldn't have bothered me one bit if Lockwood had rolled his eyes and grinned when her back was turned, or if he had laughed-his real, full laugh, head back-when we swapped stories about Holly's prim prissiness to while away the hours out on jobs. Instead, I felt like the outsider when George and Lockwood orbited around Holly while reviewing case notes or meeting a new client.

Holly was what Lockwood needed. She supported and organized and tidied and made everything clean and easy and peaceful. Holly was what Lockwood wanted. Who he wanted. Not me. And that was a second thing I couldn't live with.

I couldn't be the weak link in the field and then the third-fourth-wheel at home.

Tears were running down my cheeks, my chin tucked on top of my clenched fists. I was gripping the pendant so tightly my nails were cutting into my palm.

Then I felt Lockwood rest his head against mine.

"Oh so brave, Luce." He breathed rather than spoke the words. "You are so much braver than I am."

He settled his arms about my shoulders and rocked me gently. My eyes were closed. I realized he was humming, a familiar tune I couldn't quite name. This is what comfort felt like, then. After a time-I couldn't have guessed how long-he spoke, slowly and clearly.

"I have a purpose, Lucy. I'm good at what I do. I'm better with you, and sometimes when we're together I feel like we're one person, we're so perfect." I felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke. "But I can't live in those moments. I have to live in the everyday world where Visitors kill people and I stop them. That's who I am, and right now-for the foreseeable future-foreseeable to us humans-that's all I am. It's all I can be." He sighed, continued.

"In a few years I'll have to think about the future, about the rest of my life...if I have one." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Until then I have to keep attacking, Luce. Moving on to the next case. No deviation. Holly knows that. That's what she good at-managing, smoothing over, moving on."

"You...you are a constant challenge, Luce." He sounded as though he were smiling. I wanted badly to see his face but, even more, I wanted him to continue talking unguardedly. I held still, and he did.

"Lucy, I want to help you find out what you can do. Maybe the right ghost is out there. I...I understand that it might be safer for everyone if you explored your Talent with someone else by your side. I wish I could offer you more. I can't, right now." He paused. His voice had grown thicker, lower.

"But as sure as you are that your Talent will be the death of me, I am surer that my way forward lies somehow with you," he ended. With that he drew back, tipped my head up and kissed my forehead softly.

When we're on a job we carefully construct an unbroken circle of iron to hold us safe inside, no matter what rages around us. Right at that moment I wanted to build a circle around the two of us, to hold us together there while time and change and chance ranged themselves outside, powerless against our defenses.

Even as I savored his words and his touch, and luxuriated in the feeling that there was an us, after all, I knew that he had fixed a circle around himself, too. As with his sister's room, when he had invited us in but told only half the story, Lockwood had offered part of himself to me-but held more back.

I could live with that.

"Anthony Lockwood," I began, a trifle unsteadily. "I want to help you find the way forward, and I can wait."

I gave myself the pleasure of looking into his eyes. "I know a little bit about what drives you...and I have some things I need to do, too." I had seen an opening, a next step. "Perhaps you can help me-from a safe distance-when you meet with Penelope Fittes next week? Do you think she would be interested in my Talent?"

We both knew the answer to that. Fittes would likely be as eager to get her hands on me as her grandmother had been to pick up the pickled lungs of a notorious poisoner. All three of us had our doubts about Penelope Fittes and our questions about the Orpheus Society, but I needed a place to go, and I would be careful. Besides, my working with the Fittes Agency might help Lockwood & Co., and I knew how important his agency's success was to Lockwood himself.

He nodded. "Just what I was thinking, Luce. She'd be a fool to pass you up, and she's certainly not that." A slight frown. "You'll take care, of course...I know you can look after yourself, but perhaps you should continue to live here?"

I nodded then, quickly. Tears of a different sort threatened, and I sniffed happily. Being more than capable didn't mean I couldn't be looked after.

He smiled, a smile I'd never seen before, and touched the diamond pendant at my throat with one fingertip, lightly. "This is so like you, Lucy. So strong and so precious."

And at that moment I became thoroughly aware that Lockwood and I were sitting on my bed, in the middle of the night, with no more than a few inches between us.

I cleared my throat.

"You ought to get that looked at, Lucy," he said, standing. "Or at least bundle up a little." He reached down and pulled the bunched counterpane up as I settled down in bed.

"Or you could turn up the heat," I offered. "Did your parents let you freeze when you slept up here?"

"I wore thick woolly socks to bed. I'll get you a pair. Can't have you sniffling all over the elegant Ms. Fittes," he replied, patting the pockets of his robe as if he expected said socks to appear.

"So that's it, then. I suspend your resignation-temporarily, no more jobs for the two of us, I talk to Penelope Fittes next week, and you blow your nose," he said, handing me the handkerchief he'd found. "All set. Any other crises we have to confront tonight? Please keep that, by the way," he added, nodding to the damp bit of cloth balled up in my fist. He had already opened the door, was almost in the hall.

"N-no." Lockwood heard my hesitation and turned.

"Let's just wait a moment while I look up 'n-no' in my Carlyle-to-English dictionary," he said smoothly. "Ah-ha, here it is: 'yes.'"

Suddenly his eternal composure infuriated me again. How did he do that, how was he so self-possessed and pulled together-when my brain was reeling, I knew my face was blotchy and my nose was still running from my bout of weeping?

I bolted upright again. "Oh hell, Lockwood, don't you know that I'm mad at you? I am supposed to be mad at you!" I surprised myself with an outburst aimed squarely at him. "You get to make jokes and make plans and the rest of us just have to go along with what you decide, is that it?"

After a brief pause, one more jab: "And there was never a contract!"

"It is my agency, Lucy, and my word is final." His voice was like his rapier work, smooth and steely. "But you might want to reconsider what you just said. You're the one who thinks you know what's best for me. You said so, earlier. I'm not going to argue with you-tonight-but you have to understand that I'm not that Fetch. I'm not created from your imagination."

"You have no idea how much I want you to be real," I shot back. "But that doesn't mean you get to make all the decisions. I'm a real person, too."

"You don't get to decide what's best for me," he replied calmly. "And I don't get to decide what's best for you. We have to do it together, I think."

He was standing in the shadow, half in the hallway now. "We've begun, tonight. Let's see where it takes us."

And the door to my bedroom whispered shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Have you ever awoken with a smile on your lips and a song in your heart and the certainty that all your problems have disappeared like a vanquished Shade?

Me neither. But the next morning I did wake up in a comfortable state of contented expectation, like when I was little and we had a school holiday. Sometimes Mary and I wouldn't tell Mam and we'd have the whole day to ourselves. Visitors don't go on holiday so it'd been quite a few years but I remembered that feeling of unhurried lightness, as though the morning were a big sunny room I had been invited to play in.

And in fact my little attic was filled with light, which was unusual because I almost always slept with the window shaded so that the early morning rays wouldn't rouse me. The memory of Lockwood pulling back the curtains hit me with a pleasant jolt as I shook off the last of my drowsiness.

I felt as though I was starting a new chapter, just like my trip down from the north the year before, only this time I didn't have to leave home to do it. Home now was most certainly the garret at 35 Portland Row and not the cottage I had lived in for my first fourteen years. My talk with Lockwood the night before had restored my conviction that I belonged here, with Lockwood-with my friends. And even with Holly Munro.

Now I would have the chance to explore my Talent; perhaps I would be the next Marissa Fittes. I was certainly ready to try. At the very least I wouldn't be like my Mam, locked up inside a smoky house and slowly dying of fear and boredom and overwork.

I just needed to convince Penelope Fittes to trust me.

After stretching a bit in bed, glad to be rid of the torpor that had plagued me for the past few days, I got up to visit the loo.

I found myself humming along with the happy, catchy little ditty in the background just before I realized that the radio wasn't on - I didn't even have a radio in my room.

The skull was singing cheerfully, a chipper smile up against the glass. Just a smile - no other bits of its face were visible. As creepy as the skull's manifestations often were, this was creepier.

The ghost seemed to feel the same distaste for me.

A typical maniacal grimace promptly returned. "Ugh. What a goose you are with that sappy grin plastered on your mug." The whole jaw had disappeared under a menacing projection of sharpened teeth.

"Oh, stuff it, why don't you?" I snapped at the jar. "Just because you're perpetually bitter and gloomy, Mr. Death-Is-Coming, doesn't mean the rest of us can't have fun now and again!"

"Or even just two of the rest of you, hmmm?" a voice crooned in my ear.

I threw my pillow at the jar.

"Careful, sweetheart, you wouldn't want to break anything." The voice was smooth and oily and sent a shiver right up my spine. At least the pillow covered the jar, completely obscuring it.

"And that's not how it works, dear. Clever child that you are, you're just like a cat behind the curtains: Moggy thinks she's invisible because she can't see you, when her pretty little feet are peeping out the whole time." The skull chuckled, a grating noise that I could somehow feel in my jaw and along the back of my neck. Had my thoughts been that obvious?

I sensed the sinister smile hidden behind the pillow as the skull spoke again. "Whether or not you and those other pathetic creatures can see me, my dear, I can always find you. Always."

I bit back a nasty reply as the horrid implications of those words sank in.

"So be nice and I'll tell you where your boyfriend went when he left your room last night..." the skull continued in a wheedling tone.

I broke in. "Sorry, wait - you can see us when we can't see you? Even when you just look like a skull in a silver glass jar, you're watching us? Anywhere in the house? Such as... such as in my bathroom? Or in the dark?"

I was trying to make sense of what the skull had just said while at the same time trying not to think about what a "yes" would mean for my chances of ever having even a shred of privacy in the future. Or in the past, for that matter.

"What do you take me for - some kind of pervert?" For a moment the skull actually sounded shocked and more than a little disgusted. "Not to worry, sunshine. I can see you now because you're talking to me. The pillow is irrelevant and, may I say, the pillow slip is in desperate need of a thorough washing. You're going to have to clean up your act if you want to hold on to Sparkling Grin down the stairs."

I snatched the pillow up and hurriedly peeled off the slip, adding it to my laundry pile. "But if you weren't talking to him then how would you know where my...where Lockwood went after he left here?" I continued.

"Oh I don't. But you're so easy to get a rise out of, I never can resist." The fangs had been replaced by a knobby face with a large wart and a grossly exaggerated smirk - not particularly creepy but far from pleasant. "And simmer down, sweetheart. Of course I can get a fix on you even if you're not tuned in to me. Your Talent's so unusual even a Stone Knocker could pick up on it - not to mention a Poltergeist."

Sounding a little peevish, the skull continued, "Which of course you'd know if you'd been paying attention to my wise counsel the other night rather than wasting time in that silly little cat fight with our salad-eating friend. Why use words when there are knives and skillets available? I really should have helped you along."

I'm sure the skull regretted not being able to manifest hands; his tone suggested that he would have been rubbing them together fiendishly.

The skull's rare expansiveness was a fascinating change and I really was eager to learn more about the abilities and limitations of a Type Three Ghost - or at least my Type Three Ghost - but the immediate and rather pressing question seemed to be how I was to get dressed without lugging the skull down to the basement, especially if covering it with a tea cosy didn't work.

I tried again. "So if I know you're talking to me but I ignore you, can you still see me?"

"Ignore me? You never ignore me," the skull asserted somewhat petulantly. "When you think you're ignoring me you're investing a great deal of effort pretending not to hear or think about me. How is that ignoring?"

With great forbearance I held my temper in check and went for another angle. "When you talk about seeing me, is that the same way that the living see?" I asked. "I mean not the same mechanism but the same effect - if I put that slip back over you and then I got dressed would you be able to describe what I was wearing?"

"Of course I can describe what you would be wearing: a tatty roll-neck black jumper, a limp black tee, bedraggled black skirt, and black leggings with a hole in them," he answered smugly. "That was too easy - ask me one that requires actual observation and not just general awareness of your complete lack of any sartorial flair, or even basic grooming."

I opened my mouth to let him have it but he cut me off. "Oh, and I almost forgot the boots - steel-toed boots, black, of course. Also hors de combat, unless by some miracle you've finally polished them."

"Look, I may not be a Holly Munro..." I said hotly, completely sidetracked by this unprovoked attack on my appearance and ready to defend myself, but he interjected again.

"You've got that much right, sister!" The now perky, smiling lips blew me a kiss.

"I may not be Holly Munro," I continued, pointedly ignoring him, "but I could put together a perfectly acceptable outfit if I chose to waste my time on that kind of thing."

"Prove it," the skull snapped. "Come on, sweetheart: show me what you're going to wear for your interview with Penelope Fittes."

Ten minutes later I had dug through my heap of dirty clothes - twice - and looked at every garment hanging askew in my armoire or tucked into my dresser. Other than my blue dress, I had come up with a mostly clean pinafore, unfortunately black and bit frayed around the hem; a white blouse, wrinkled but passable; and a wooly cardigan that was somewhat shopworn but was redeemed, I hoped, by its rich aubergine color. I thought it might just pass for quirky and fashionable.

Did these items add up to an acceptable ensemble or would they make me look like a Primary school pupil? I was much more confident in the field than in front of a mirror: on the list of things I spent time thinking about, clothes probably ranked just below learning to make pancakes and just above scrubbing my toilet.

I realized I was dithering, but then my concentration and creativity were not aided by the skull's repeated murmurings of "Egg whisk. Coat hanger. Skillet. Missed opportunities."

"You wouldn't stand a chance in that get-up, sweetheart," the skull informed me.

"A chance at what?" I replied. "I'm just showing you that I am capable of dressing myself..."

"As though you were twelve, yes. You won't impress anyone with your maturity and sophistication wearing a fuzzy purple cardie," the ghost continued. "If you want to snare a new employer - or your old one - you're going to have to step up your game."

Standing there in my pajamas with clothes draped across my bed, talking to a murderous ghost in a jar about the contents of my wardrobe, having already received career and dating advice from said Visitor, could have reminded me that I was a freak, should have made me feel even more acutely the gulf that separated me from a normal teenage girl.

Instead, on this bright early winter morning, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

I was ready to chart my own course. As soon as I used the loo.


End file.
